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A DIRGE.
107
VI.
The goldeyéd kingcups fine;
The frail bluebell peereth over
Rare broidry of the purple clover—
Let them rave.
Kings have no such couch as thine,
As the green that folds thy grave—
Let them rave.
The goldeyéd kingcups fine;
The frail bluebell peereth over
Rare broidry of the purple clover—
Let them rave.
Kings have no such couch as thine,
As the green that folds thy grave—
Let them rave.
VII.
Wild words wander here and there;
God's great gift of speech abused
Makes thy memory confused—
But let them rave.
The balmcricket carols clear
In the green that folds thy grave—
Let them rave.
Wild words wander here and there;
God's great gift of speech abused
Makes thy memory confused—
But let them rave.
The balmcricket carols clear
In the green that folds thy grave—
Let them rave.
